


Firefly

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Death, Dirk possesses something akin to PTSD, Hostage Situation, Jake attempts comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder part is skippable!, Outstanding Marriage Propositions, Sexual References, royal au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9412175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: Dirk is a child when he’s stolen away from Derse to serve as a royal hostage under the rule of Her Imperious Condescension. Years later, he’s rescued by the Prospitian army and forges a bond with its prince.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From [Tumblr](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/post/154238054176/dirk-is-a-child-when-hes-stolen-away-from-derse).
> 
> If you'd prefer not to see Dersian family being ripped apart, please be advised that it starts at the ● moon and continues until the ☼ sun.

Kanaya has always been a foreign presence in your home. Trolls were rare in Derse. Rarer were ones that were actually welcome. But Kanaya had always been a kind maternal figure towards you, a supporter of Derse and antagonist to the cold, slimy grip of the Alternian empire. She was your mother’s closest lady in waiting and the only one now allowed into the prison of the royal quarters. You feel a little sick to your stomach at the tenseness you give when she reaches out to stoke your hair.

She stills, briefly, and sighs a heartbreaking sigh. Pulls back. Turns to your mother.

“He’s too large,” she says.

“I know,” Rose replies. She’s a pale, thinly spun ream of stress pressing the bundle of your eleven month old sister to her breast. You have never seen your mother so desperate. So dead-eyed and dangerous.

“It’ll be alright,” Dave says, in his pitiful sort of tone that sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than any other. Your father is the king but his voice echoes a child’s. “Dirk is strong. You’re strong enough to stay, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say.

You’re not truly listening. Ever since the Empress of Alternia stormed the Dersian castle and executed the royal guard things have been muffled. Blurred or too sharp in your ears. You know you’re too big. Too big to cry. Too big to be useless in this situation. Too big to be a pawn. You’re seven years old but you feel like you’re three. Clinging to maternal skirts that are far too small to fit under.

Your mother is a significantly better schemer. Kanaya is warm and gentle as she lifts the heavy fabric of her dress to reveal the sling of fabric tied around her waist to drape low beside her knees. Kanaya is slim and sharp in the troll standard but you’ve never felt more grateful for the broad skirts and padded hips of Dersian fashion. Rose kisses your sister on the forehead, once, and stands.

“Can I…” Dave starts. He’s effectively helpless for a king. Strange when stripped of all the silver and amethyst and fur as he reaches for his daughter with loose fingers, like he might be denied that as well.

Rose lowers your sister into his arms gently. She’s asleep. Soft and gentle. You don’t dare ask to hold her too but you do gaze upon her, desperate to memorize her face.

“I love you, Rox,” Dave mumbles. “Roxanne. Roxy-Rox. Princess.”

He holds her a little longer than the collective of you probably have time for. He closes his eyes when Rose reclaims her, as if pretending it’s all a dream. He was always a dreamer. An imagination a mile-wide now crushed beneath the reality of a fallen kingdom. You hate seeing him broken and vow never to let yourself fall with such lack of grace. You can be stronger than him at least. You can be brave.

Rose is swift but gentle when she nestles baby Roxy into the covert sling beneath the fabric of Kanaya’s emerald skirt. She kisses her daughter one final time before standing, letting the cloth drape back down. Indistinguishable. Your sister will be safe. Stolen into the night by this kind, familiar troll woman.

“Thank you,” Rose says. She kisses Kanaya too. Once, then twice, on each cheek.

“Derse will rise again,” Kanaya says.

“It’s got to,” Rose replies. “We’re a stubborn clutch of royals.”

“The stubbornnest,” Dave notes from where he’s sat on the edge of the bed. Slumped and confused. “We’re like weeds. Stubborn and deep rooted and generally assholes. Stashing our kids away and sprouting up through tyrannical cobblestones when least expected.”

Your mother laughs. True and pure. Taking Kanaya in hand.

“Take good care of her,” Rose says. “For as long as you can. Please.”

“Of course, My Lady.”

“Thank you.”

Your sister is gone with a knock on the bolted door of the royal quarters. A troll guard, sharp eyed and cold blooded, opens them and escorts Kanaya back into the castle proper. The door is slammed shut as quickly as it was opened, leaving a harsh echo in your already dimmed ears.

“I didn’t,” you say, suddenly. “—I didn’t say goodbye.”

Rose breathes an audible breath and you feel weak all over again. She turns to you, kneeling down to your height.

“You will see your sister again,” she states, a cool hand on your cheek. “When this is over you will find her. You will restore her to this castle. You will be king.”

“Rose,” Dave says, cautiously. “He needs rest.”

“Do not forget who you are,” Rose says. Her voice shakes. “You are a prince. You are entitled to the land beneath your feet. You are Dirk, my little Prince of Derse. Don’t ever forget it.”

●

The world is a blur after that. A sleepless nap for infinite hours before being harshly awoken and strung up by guards. Forced to kneel besides your parents as dark heeled boots click angrily upon the surface of the royal bedroom. Watching the Empress order to slit the Dersian Queen’s throat if the royal family can’t produce their Princess. Watching the floor in front of you through the muffled sound of your father’s screams. Watching the cracks in the stone wobble and blur as your vision goes soft and then so very, very hard.

And then, suddenly, she’s in front of you. When she reaches a hand for your face you do not flinch. You refuse to show a fear of trolls, a fear of her.

“Ain’t you a brave little prince,” she says, clicked and sharp and unnatural, unnative.

She tilts your chin up to look at her. You stare. Deep and long at her yellow eyes, her tyrian irises, her blown pupils.

She laughs. Her nails bite into your cheek. Crawl up through your hair.

“Ooh I like somefin’ about you,” she hums and coos and otherwise sing-songs against the stone casing you’ve bricked around yourself. “Think I’ll keep ya.”

Her grip turns sharp in your hair and you stand with her when she rights herself. You don’t fight but you don’t plead. You don’t forfeit.

“Not him,” Dave is mumbling, no less than four guards securing him as he squirms and kicks in and at their grip. “Please, please, whatever—whatever you want but not him—not Dirk—”

“Here’s how this is going to work, now,” the Empress says. The claws in your hair have dropped to the back of your throat.

“Not Dirk—Please not Dirk—”

“Derse is Alternian territory. Congrats, you sniveling searibbing. You’re an official part of the Outer Ring.”

“Dirk—Dirk look at me—Run—Run now—”

You will not run. Princes do not run. You know who you are.

“What a well behaved guppy,” she notes, thumbing at your neck. You stare ahead blankly. “Knows how to take a loss, don’t ya? Is that your human mommy on the ground?”

You don’t answer. She seems to get bored with your lack of response and turns back to Dave.

“You’re a good front,” she says. “These humans out here? They love ya. Trippin’ all over their little human nookflaps and expanding buldges tryin’ to retake the castle right now. So listen up.”

Dave is dragged closer towards her.

“You’re going to step your little fishtail out there and calm ‘em down. Be a good king. A remorseful king. I heard you’ve got a wave with words so I bet you’ll think'a somefin’ clever.”

Dave is quiet.

“We’re gonna’ leave you a nice Alternian ambassador. Quality fish named Ampora. I’m sure you’ll love 'im. He’s going to tell you what rules to enact. You’re gonna’ enact them. Sea?”

Dave is too quiet.

“And as for this little guppy,” she shakes you around a bit, like a doll. “He’s comin’ along with me. I’ve taken a shimmer to him.”

Your blood goes as cold as hers. You catch Dave’s eyes, equally terrified.

“I’ll keep 'im safe. Don’t look so shellstruck,” she bites out, grip tightening on you. “All you betta do is follow Ampora’s command. Simple recipe. It’s that easy.”

A pause. A sinister grin. Claws on your shoulders now. Digging into your chest, your lungs, your heart.

“Or I’ll kill him, chum. Send you his head in a box.” Dave looks like he might pass out. “But all you gotta do to avoid that is follow my simple steps. It really is just that easy.”

 

☼

 

You’re warm when you awake. It’s been months—exactly how many, you’re unsure—but the strange buzz of waking up to spun cotton sheets still rubs dry and foreign against your skin. Part of you aches for the encompassing slime of Alternian bed, but it’s muted. Blurred.

Your eyes have yet to focus on anything but the golden light streaming onto your face from the open arches of the bedroom. It’s sunset in Prospit. A luscious glaze of gold across the sky. You’re safe. You’re alone.

You sit up in bed and let the sheets fall off your naked body. It’s just the edge of spring in Prospit but the cooling last breaths of winter seep from the imminent night sky onto your newly exposed shoulders. You shiver, slightly, and the wind chimes dangling a few feet from the bed echo in response.

You still fail to comprehend how the Prospitians live so exposed to the elements. The elevated, circular bedroom of Prospit’s own prince owed half its walls to great domed archways leading down brief steps to the royal gardens. Beyond that, paths to other equally open rooms made up the bulk of the Prospitian palace. The archways had curtains, but no doors. You’re unsure what they do when it rains. You’ve yet to experience it and yet to ask Jake.

You’re so very alone.

With a heave you manage to haul yourself up from the bedsheets. A loose robe lies discarded on a nearby reading chair. You drape it around your shoulders and belt it around the waist. It’s embroidered with silken threads and depicts six golden wings sprouting from the back and thick vinery crawling up the hem. Not yours—clearly—but an inconclusive loan. You keep expecting a request for payment.

The marble staircase that curves around the base of the bedroom (which, really, was far more of a fancifully dressed platform to you) is cool against the bare soles of your feet. The inevitable give of moss three steps down is springy and slightly damp, but not uncomfortably so. It was indeed sunset. Everywhere. You bite down the shatterings of your promise to him to improve your nocturnal sleeping habits. You were a trolls captive for 15 years, a guest of Prospit for a mere fraction later. It would take time to break your quirks.

The walk through the garden is a familiar one. Glowing stepping stones light your way through the dusk towards the dining pavilion. When you arrive the small bugs the Prospitians kept locked inside lamps were already buzzing with light for the night. They were hung from the rafters of the open room and a few were nestled among the fruit-strewn table. You feel sympathy for their capture, their usefulness.

“Good morning,” a voice calls, and your eyes drift to the source.

Prince Jake is a cheerful gaze to meet, but a slow match for yourself nonetheless. He is leaned back casually on his evening chair, apart from the greater dining set, with a book on his lap and a dog nestled comfortable beside his feet. In contrast to you he is fully dressed. Though you’ve met few Prospitians who dress as scantily as him. Today he sports a loose linen top and short pants with travel boots. Unlike the sharp dip of a “V” composing his open collar, his boots are laced compact and tight. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His shorts cuffed. He has clearly been up to much more than you during the day.

“Hello,” you say. Your voice sounds blank and mechanical but he smiles. Gestures towards the table.

“Breakfast?”

You take a seat in a dining chair and drape yourself over the stained oak of the table’s surface. You don’t say a word more but you know he’s used to it. You’re thankful for that.

He closes his book and stands up. His dog (and bodyguard, you’d learned) perks its head up to keep a keen eye on him as he reaches a hand out over you to pluck an orange from a nearby overflowing fruit basket. His other hand finds a plate to place it on and a knife to cut it.

The scent of halved citrus perks you up, slightly. You drag yourself up into a sitting position, and accept the section of the orange he gives you. He retains the other, biting into it and slipping into the seat next to you.

You watch him drag his teeth over the flesh of the orange. Watch him break the thin film holding back the sweet fruit. Feel your mouth water.

“Do you want to have sex?” you ask. As bluntly as ever. His mouth stops mid-bite. The orange is lifted away.

“Not particularly,” he says, as if breaking bad news to a child. “You just woke up there, friend. You should eat.”

You want to taste him more than the fruit. You want to press him to your lips and tongue and teeth and feel the texture of him inside you. Feel anything inside you. Anything. Anything.

“Alright,” you reply. It takes a few moments for your brain to make the connection that you should actually take a bite.

“Did you sleep quite alright?” he asks.

You nod around a mouthful of orange. It floods your tongue with flavor. Makes a cut on your gumline sting.

“Jane is, uh,” he says, then stalls. You stare. “Well you know her. Always a sister before a queen, that Janey. She’s right frazzled about you, you know. Always doting for details over how you’re doing and…” Another stall. Another stare. “Well, to be frank, dear. I’m never quite sure what to tell her.”

“Fine,” you say, passive. “I’m fine. Have you heard from Derse?”

Jake begins to peel a banana too. He steals a butterknife to slice it into coin-sized pieces. “Nothing I’ve yet to tell you,” he says, beginning to thumb the knife down across the fruit. Each cut falls to the plate beneath his fingers. “Striving to return to their former glory in light of their restored freedom. Flourishing under their new queen. Missing their prince—” A glance up at Dirk. Not demanding but inquisitive. “As they rightfully should. Some of their nastiest rag magazines are starting to imply I’m keeping you locked up in my quarters!”

You snort.

“To think anything of the sort,” Jake huffs. “My bedroom doesn’t even have walls.”

“Don’t mind the Dersian press. They were always like that,” you say, somewhat fondly. The change of tone in your voice clearly startles Jake.

“…You remember it then? The press, at least?”

“Patches,” you say. “Still patches.”

Jake swallows and nods, a stray hand reaching out to smooth down your surely sleep-wild hair. It’s abrupt but affectionate. A tittering movement of comfort by one who is still unfamiliar in the intricacies of the act.

“How long has it been, now?” you ask, looking down at the orange cupped in your fingers.

Jake hesitates. Slides the banana plate towards you. “…Since you’ve been here?”

“Since The Empress was killed,” you clarify, deadpan. “Since Derse was freed.”

“It’s, uh. Been a little over sixteen months, friend,” Jake says.

A sigh. Jake frowns.

“Now don’t you worry a single second there! I know you haven’t quite wrapped your noggin around that kerfuffle called time yet but I assure you the rogue Princess Roxy has everything well in order—truly! As soon as you feel up for it we can scoon across the brink and you can take an eyeful of it yourself. The reconstruction is really coming along quite nicely—”

A deeper sigh. You want to collapse against the table again.

“—Are you alright?” Jake asks, cautious but ever curious. His nervous hands are back, hovering right over your shoulder.

“That was supposed to be me,” you mutter. “Saving Derse. Restoring the throne. I was supposed to protect her.”

The hands decide to settle. Warm and heavy. The sleeve of your robe slips down, down, over your shoulder and down your arm. You leave it. You hope you look fuckable.

“You can still help when you return,” Jake assures you.

“Not now,” you say. “Not… like this.”

He drags your head forward and kisses you. Which is what he does when he doesn’t know what else to say. Mouths at your lips and pulls you nearer until you threaten to slide off your chair. Kisses are welcome. He only fucks you if he’s really out of conversational options. When he’s hit rock bottom of ways to comfort you and is looking for an easy fix to the intolerable press of discomfort that seeps up your bones every time you dwell on your past a little too long. You were deprived of touch for so many years, it’s instant euphoria. You pray everyday he feels the same of you.

“Jane worries,” Jake mumbles when he pulls back. You know he worries too.

“I’ve heard,” you reply.

“They’ll love you, you know—The lost prince, the stolen heart of the moon kingdom—”

“I know,” you say.

“They won’t resent you,” Jake says. He’s still lingering. Close. “…For staying in Prospit. For ensuring the budding alliance to the golden kingdom—” He shrugs down, sheepish. “…For marrying its Prince.”

“As long as I visit,” you mutter. “As long as I have the wedding in Derse.”

“Your people miss you,” Jake says. Soft and even. As always.

“I don’t remember them.”

“We can make new memories,” Jake says. A hand is on your cheek and it’s warm, like Prospit. 

"Mm," you hum, leaning into him. You wonder if he will kiss you again. 

“You and me. Together.”


End file.
